


tripwire

by homosociallyyours



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 007 is a weapon that can't be controlled, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Character Death, Domestic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/pseuds/homosociallyyours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this universe, Bond and Q are in a physically abusive codependent relationship. Bond's 00 training causes him to be physically violent without realizing what he's doing. Meanwhile, Q's history of abuse keeps him tethered to Bond in spite of the danger. </p>
<p>Basically, I was looking for prompts and got three 00Qs in a row. The prompts were a fight, one character "nursing" the other, and one character killing the other. The drabbles ended up working as a unit, and so here they are all together. </p>
<p>I generally stay as far away from major character death as possible, so this was a challenge for me. But a really gut-wrenchingly fun challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tripwire

Q tasted blood. He worried at one of his front teeth, wiggling it gently with his tongue and picturing going to the dentist the next day with a black eye and his lip split. He’d make excuses, of course, as he had with the cracked rib two months back and the dislocated shoulder in December.

It wasn’t all James, really. Was it? Q raised his head and looked across the room, where James was hunched over on the couch. His head was in his hands and his glass of whisky was still in front of him, condensation forming as the ice melted. James reached for it slowly and Q saw the bruises on his knuckles. The wall, yes. Looking up brought it back to him. He’d made an offhand comment about a recent mission, and James had snapped, his body tensing as he strode toward Q. 

As usual, Q couldn’t remember the exact details. He saw flashes and replayed the same moments in loop: James’ fist hitting the wall, leaving the imprint of his knuckles, then the pull back and shove with the flat of his hand. He couldn’t remember James hitting him. Instead it was an image of his father, towering over him and yelling, then backhanding him. He’d lost a tooth then, too.

He’d work from home tomorrow, and the next day if he could. Already he was thinking of taking arnica for the bruises, some stashed away vicodin for the pain. He could forgo the dentist til the black eye was able to be covered. 

Q sighed, perhaps a little louder than intended, and James looked up at him with his pale eyes wet from crying. “Q,” he started to speak but stopped himself, shaking his head as if that might undo his earlier violence. Q’s head fell back against the wall as he let himself try to piece it all together. He willed himself to remember James’ fist and not his father’s hand. 

His blood was hot and coppery in his mouth. He stood, saying nothing, and slowly walked out the flat. 

 

*********************

 

James stood outside the door to Q’s flat for a full half hour before he finally knocked, his forehead resting against the doorframe as he listened to Q shuffling around inside. He could picture the scene: Q in his striped pyjama bottoms, shuffling from the couch to the kitchen in his worn out house slippers, laptop and mug of tea and a pile of tools sharing space on the too small coffee table. He’d have made toast when he woke up, but he wouldn’t have gotten around to eating it yet. Probably didn’t feel like eating it, really. 

What stopped James from knocking was the thought of Q’s eye, bruise still dark and fresh around it, and the cut on his lip that would only just have closed up. That bright, lively face, wrecked. Just for a day or two, this time. But the thought nagged at him that next time could be different. Each time he snapped, he was one step closer to damaging Q irreparably. And yet he kept coming back, hoping that his desire to change could be enough to make things different. 

He knocked, holding his breath as he listened to Q crossing the floor. He couldn’t bring himself to smile as he heard the locks unclicking and Q’s hand undoing the chain and opening the door a crack. 

“I brought a steak, for your eye. And I thought you’d have the pain meds covered, so I got you DVDs instead. 28 Days and 28 Days Later. And...I’m sorry. God damn it, love, I’m so sorry.” 

Q stared at him through the crack at the door. His eye was as bad as James had imagined it would be, and his stomach churned at the memory of his fist connecting with Q’s face. He’d spent the evening crying, gun on one side of him and bottle of whisky at the other. The whisky had won, and he’d decided that he had to change or die. And that he’d start with getting Q fixed up. 

“You need help, James. And I can’t give it to you. It’s too much for me, it has been for a while now.” Q gripped the door, white-knuckled, as if he was fighting another part of himself to keep it open. 

“Yes, you’re right. I know you’re right. Just please, darling, may I make it up to you today?” James’ head suddenly felt heavy, and he rested it against the door frame again. Almost automatically, Q reached out his free hand and traced along the side of James’ face, slowly and tenderly. 

“Come in,” he said, pulling the door open. James moved in slowly, not wanting Q to rescind the invitation. When he reached the couch, he sat down tentatively before patting the cushion next to him and nodding for Q to join him. Q sat, but not as close as James had hoped, opting instead to let his hand fall over James’ as he looked at him through red rimmed eyes. 

“Zombie movies today, but you’re calling a therapist tomorrow. Right?” 

“Yes, love. I promise.” 

 

**********************

 

The strength of 007’s’ grip didn’t surprise Q, but the span of his hand did. This was not James, no, not at all. This was 007 through and through, and he was slowly choking the life out of Q. The 00s were deadly--they were trained to kill without feeling, and the look in 007’s eyes made it clear that was all he was capable of at the moment. James was unreachable, buried under the explosion that Q had triggered entirely by accident. 

That was the thought that registered first and stayed strongest when James grabbed Q suddenly and forcefully by the neck, lifting him up and closing off his airway. 

James’ hand reached nearly all the way around Q’s throat, a fact that became all the more apparent as Q tried in vain to peel James’ fingers away, to loosen them even the slightest bit as he choked and gasped for oxygen.

He wasn’t sure how it happened, really. They were talking about a movie they’d just seen. Q had said it wasn’t plausible, and was about to launch into what James would have called a “boring, useless tirade” on cyborgs when the energy shifted. James’ face turned cold and hard, his mouth set. Q touched him gently on the chest, and his body sparked to life. 

Q disassociated almost immediately. In his mind he was in front of a computer, coding. He was sipping from a large mug of tea while his mum and dad shouted at each other from the other room. He was not being choked. He was not dying. 

His body was, though. His fingers pried and pulled at 007’s arm, scratching him deep enough to draw blood. He kicked and squirmed, all while his throat closed up under the pressure of 007’s hand. 

It didn’t take long for the struggle to end, but 007 couldn’t loosen his grip. His 00 training was designed to kick in so quickly and thoroughly that, once activated, it won’t release the agent until the job is most assuredly complete. And so when James came back to his senses, Q’s body was falling from his grip. 

James’s first thought was to catch Q, to make sure he didn’t hit his head. Almost simultaneously he realized that this wouldn’t matter. Q was dead, killed, targeted and obliterated. James fell to his knees and began to scream out a trail of obscenities that was laced with Q’s name. 

Four months seeing an MI6-approved therapist, and nearly 5 without an incident of abuse. He’d thought it was over, and yet at his core he’d known it wasn’t. He’d stayed up countless nights, feigning sleep until he heard the gentle puffs of Q’s breath behind him, only to worry that tonight might be the night that his breath would stop. James had pictured a gun, usually. Opening his eyes to see Q bleeding out, the smell of gunpowder fresh on his hands.  
This was worse, far worse than he had imagined. He pressed his face into Q’s hair and breathed in the smell of him for the last time, wishing his own tears weren’t there to sully the moment. 

James knelt next to Q and pulled out his gun, closing his lips around the barrel. This was the kill he had been trained for, the sacrifice of self for Queen and country. It came too late, of course. It always did.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to tumblr users zooeyscigar, kitty-prydon, and b6690 for the prompts, and as always many thanks to [Ray](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox) for beta-ing/handholding/general encouragement.


End file.
